


Sculpted From Life

by danceswithgary



Category: Smallville
Genre: Alternate Universe, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-03-27
Updated: 2008-03-27
Packaged: 2017-10-03 23:34:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/danceswithgary/pseuds/danceswithgary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When it comes to cheating death, one chance in a million is better than no chance at all, irrational as it may be. The same could be said for living.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sculpted From Life

His head hanging low over the white porcelain, he spat a final time and watched the swirl of crimson dissipate in the tainted water. As he flushed, he remembered when red had been a favored color...and shuddered at its all too prevalent appearance in the past few weeks. It was almost too much effort to lift the toothbrush to his mouth, but he knew he would be thankful later when it came time for another futile attempt to eat or drink something that would stay down.

Mouth cleaner, he slicked back lank, dark hair with damp hands while he avoided the sight of bloodshot hazel eyes in the mirror. He carefully made his way downstairs and into the kitchen in search of...something, only to abandon the trip in mid-course and detour out onto the back porch. Standing there, he squinted into the mid-afternoon sun and considered his options. The barn and fields had been empty of livestock for months, and the garden with its unweathered headstones held no allure, so his gaze wandered to the gravel drive and beyond. A shrug and he was down the steps, and the yellow farmhouse held lonely vigil behind him.

His path was random, stones absently kicked to the side as the dirt gritted beneath the soles of his worn boots. The aged flannel ended knotted around his thin waist as the sun held sway, and circles of sweat darkened his faded blue t-shirt as he plodded along. He licked dry lips and thought about the water he'd left chilling in the refrigerator and continued to walk, oddly reluctant to turn back.

Broken pavement and iron gates interrupted, and he halted to address the change. A moldering ruin at the end of an ill-kept driveway beckoned, and a careless shove disposed of the metal barrier. Slow steps measured the distance to the stone heap until he stood the shadow of the single completed wing. Mild curiosity stirred, memory supplying stories of twenty-five years and a construction project abandoned, sudden death by a fiery rain. Evidence of recent occupation belied his recollection, calling it into question.

Bypassing the front entrance, he continued around the side toward the cool shade promised by green trees. The formal gardens that never were held a riotous tangle of vines and shrubs, interspersed by splashes of untended blooms...and a man. A bald head shone pinkly between strips of shadow, bobbing and jerking in a silent and arcane dance around the gnarled trunk of a tree. Curved branches crossed and re-crossed in sweeping arcs, weathered wood hinting at death forestalled by feathered sprigs of green. A bonsai, but like no other, towering supreme in a declaration of centuries. Suddenly, piercing blue eyes skewered him where he stood in awe, and then abrupt words reeled him in. "Well, get over here and tell me when it changes!"

A laptop was thrust into his unprepared hands, digitized numerals blinking in the center of the screen in a bizarre countdown. Clucking impatiently, the bald man pointed to a smaller set of numbers in one corner before wheeling about and stabbing a long probe into the soil a few feet away. "Well?"

"17.05."

The probe was withdrawn and then re-inserted another two yards away, and snapping fingers demanded the next readout.

"17.05"

"I said...when it changes." The tone was peremptory as the probe was yanked free, and accompanied by a sigh of frustration. "Keep up, will you?" A final insertion and the blue eyes were back to assess his helpfulness. "Well?"

"It didn't change."

"Yes, yes, that's all well and good. Now I just need to...." The laptop was reacquired and carried to a nearby stone bench, where its keys were rapidly engaged in data entry. With a nod of satisfaction, the other snapped it shut and then turned back to him, naked skull cocked in delayed interest. "Were you looking for something?"

"No." When the blue eyes failed to evince any belief in that negation, he tried again. "Yes."

Lips quirked, a scar on the upper providing an oddly pleasing twist. "That would not be considered an adequate response in a court of law." Opening the topmost closed button on his lavender shirt, the lean stranger fanned the cotton gently. "Would you care to try again? Are you here for a delivery?"

All at once, it was too much and then the stone bench felt cool under his thighs, while his head was pressed down gently between his knees and soothing words assured him that he was going to be fine. That was so far from the truth that he couldn't just let it lay there. "I'm dying."

 

. . .

 

The cool dimness inside the stone walls restored him to some semblance of coherency. A bottle of water also helped bring the world back into focus. The sofa beneath him was firm and comfortable, and tempted him with a promise of sleep long denied by pain. Quiet words and a chilled hand on his forehead forced his attention. "Back with me?" Temporarily satisfied by his nod, the other continued, "Care to elaborate on your declaration outside?"

He couldn't look into those eyes that missed nothing, not and still be able to spill long-held secrets. "It's...here." Flannel pushed aside, he cradled the rising swell above his navel, the one that had consumed him until all that remained was bone, dry flesh, and a slight, flickering will to live. He hissed when paler fingers palpated tender flesh, a tongue clucking in commiseration while the hand continued its probing assessment. "Hurts."

"Do you want me to do something about it?" There was nothing save calm certitude in the face above him, and an uncanny hope tugged at snarled knots of distrust. At his slow nod, the other smoothed his t-shirt back down and rose to his feet. "Wait here. I'll need a few things." He disappeared through double doors paned with amber glass, the sound of his heels receding in quick clicks.

There had been no promise of a cure from his eccentric savior, but then he had no other real choices available. Before his x-ray vision fell prey to the disease, along with his strength and speed, he'd seen the glowing green tendrils threading through the mass overtaking his abdomen. He knew no human doctor could diagnose or treat his otherworldly cancer, so he wondered what it was about the man that prompted a suspension of disbelief.

He fell asleep watching the play of rainbow colors on the wall from the stained glass windows.

 

. . .

 

"Scared?"

Recovered enough to sit up, he watched as the slim man arranged equipment on a glass-topped desk, pausing his frenetic actions occasionally to type something into the ever-present laptop, murmuring formulae to himself. The question was abrupt, unexpected after being ignored for the last hour or so.

"I guess so, a little...."

The lean body spun around in place, and eyes like blue lasers pinned him to the sofa with focused intensity. "You don't have to stay, you know."

He shrugged, wincing as pain reminded him why moving was often a bad idea. "I guess it doesn't make sense, but I don't really have any alternative."

Leaning back against the desk, the other crossed his arms and nodded in approval. "Irrational behavior can make sense in certain situations." An impish grin peeked out of the pale face in response to his raised eyebrows. "It's a survival mechanism, just as much as flight or fight is. If you are in mortal danger and reason doesn't work, then it makes sense to abandon it and switch to random acts. Most of them will also fail, but that doesn't matter because you're going to die anyway, so you keep trying something else. Where the survival factor comes in is the recognition that one chance in a million is better than no chance at all, irrational as it may be."

The logic made his head spin, so he found it easier to lie back down and close his eyes. He floated there, registering small sounds that meant nothing, variances in light through disease-thinned eyelids. A gentle touch to his arm made him jerk and then regret, his eyes opening to the sight of a needle suited to bovine surgery, not human. Despite that harrowing thought, his voice was calm through the rasp of an abused throat. "What's that?"

Holding the needle a little farther away, the other launched into an explanation. "The short answer is it's a potassium isotope that will be used to draw off the accumulated charge in the wild cells that make up that tumor. By bleeding off the charge, the surrounding cells will be provided the chance to do the repair work they're meant to handle. That's what I was doing when you arrived. After several hundred years, wild cells were killing the bonsai. I treated it, and it's still living and will continue to grow into what it was always meant to be. I'm afraid that any additional explanation would require an engineering as well as a physics degree to understand."

"Not an MD?"

The mocking laugh twisted thin lips in a surprisingly attractive fashion. 'I'm no medical doctor. All my doctorates are in the hard sciences." He held up the needle, which trailing an electrical cable from the end. "Oh, this coil keeps the fluid magnetically and electrostatically neutral as it goes in."

"Now I know you're not a medical doctor. They would never say 'no charge.'"

Blue eyes twinkled in appreciation of the humor. "Holding out on me?" A little concern crept into the pale face and he prompted, "Ready? Keep still, then."

Resigning himself to the one in a million chance, he nodded and closed his eyes again, unwilling to watch. He felt the chill of an alcohol wipe before a sharp prick that burgeoned into a deep ache. Holding still was a struggle, his hands itching to slap away the throbbing sting that threatened a full-body cramp. Just as he reached the limit of his tolerance, he felt the slide as the needle withdrew, and he was able to breathe evenly again.

A matter-of-fact voice intruded on his recovery. "There. Now we wait until the charge begins to dissipate, then you'll need to get up and stand on that glass and wood box. How do you feel?"

Feeling an odd jitteriness growing inside, he opened his eyes and attempted a smile. "Like I'm two steps away from a screaming fit?" Turning his head, he looked toward the construction the other indicated. "What's that for?"

"It's to keep you insulated. Have you ever seen a Van De Graaf generator?"

"In high school. I remember getting charged up with like forty thousand volts and my hair stood straight up."

"Well, this is going to be about another forty thousand volts, but there shouldn't be any fireworks as long as you stay insulated."

"Where's the generator?"

"You."

The tension had increased as they were talking and with the last revelation, he found himself sitting up...and then jumping up when sparks began spitting between him and the leather sofa. "Whoa!"

The other frowned. "I guess that charge built up a lot faster than I calculated." He stepped back and waved toward the box in the center of the room. "Hurry up, get on there and don't touch anything."

The snap and pop beneath his feet left him feeling as if he were flying to the box, and he stepped up quickly and sighed in relief. The relief was short-lived as he began to shake, tremors rattling his bones and teeth until he thought he was going to shake apart. His eyes burned and he slammed them shut as he recognized the sensation, one that had been missing for months. It was all in vain, as the pressure built to a head, and the best he could do was to aim for stone walls instead of flammable wood as his eyelids flew open. Flame burst free and he screamed as all his nerve endings flared in agony. The last thing he saw as the red mists cleared was startled blue eyes...and pale hands that caught him as he fell.

 

. . .

 

Bed.

Tired.

Achy.

Thirsty.

Sleep.

Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

 

. . .

 

"How do you feel?"

The gentle voice that slipped through the fog was familiar, and he thought that he'd heard it often in the past few...days? Wanting to acknowledge it for a change, he managed to pry one eye open and moisten his lips enough to whisper, "Not dead?"

The chuckle that greeted that effort warmed him and he was able to persuade his other eye to join the first. With a little more effort, a margin of focus occurred and blue eyes looked down into his, corners crinkled with worry. He watched the scarred lip with interest, as it formed words that slowly trickled into his brain. "Feel up to drinking something?" He nodded and was rewarded with an arm under his shoulders to help him sit up enough to sip from a chilled glass of juice. "Slowly now, not too much."

Returned to his former position, he began to catalogue his condition and was pleasantly surprised by the absence of the pain that had governed his days and nights for months. Granted, he was tired, but it was closer to the lassitude after a hard day's work, not the exhaustion of illness. Tipping his head, he slipped into x-ray vision with shocking ease. Finding the tumor gone from his flattened belly was almost anticlimactic. He let his eyes slip closed again as he asked, "How long?"

The mattress by his hip depressed and a cool cloth cleaned the salt and sweat from his face and neck. "Two days. You didn't react as I expected. You...went into shock, after you turned the study into an instant blast furnace."

The odd tone in his nurse's voice raised an alert, something he hadn't had to deal with for quite some time. Still, he'd been willing to trust his life to the man, so why not his secrets? "I'm not exactly like other people." He opened his eyes to assess the admission's damage.

Placing the cloth on the table next to the bed, the other frowned, rubbing the back of his neck wearily. "I guess I'm the last person to hold that against you." He ran his hand over his smooth head and sighed. "No hair isn't the only thing that's different about me. When the meteorites...."

"Wait!" The words galvanized him, his fatigue disappearing in an instant. "You...here...when they fell?"

Puzzled, the other nodded. "My father and I were in town when they hit. He was killed...and I changed." His eyes narrowed. "Are you trying to say you...?"

He could only go so far before a lifetime of concealment shut him down. He contented himself with a short nod, silently promising a better answer in the future. Watching the other's face clear, he was convinced it was for the best...for now. Scooting back so that he could lean against the headboard, he folded his hands in his lap and waited for the other to speak. When nothing was forthcoming, he decided to ask the question that was prodding him. "If you can do this, cure cancer, then why...?"

It was as if the other had been waiting for just that and it was an on-switch. He jumped up and began to pace around the room, tension vibrating in every line of his lean body. "Why isn't the world knocking at my door looking for the miracle?" He stopped and glared, pointing with one aggravated finger. "I'm not a medical researcher, not a physician. I'm a genius that makes intuitive leaps that take others years to prove out."

"So, make them prove this one out."

"You think it's that simple. You have no idea." Abandoning the bedside, the bald man stalked to the window where he stood looking out into the night. "My last leap almost got me killed by people who felt it was better to maintain the status quo. They made more money that way. I sold my idea and came here to hide, to stay out of the world's way."

Seeing the despair in the set of the shoulders across the room, he couldn't pursue the point. "Listen, I'm sorry. I have no right...."

"Exactly. You have no right."

The flint in the other's voice sparked a flicker of anger quickly suppressed. Pushing back the covers, he started to get up before realizing he was nude. Blushing, he snatched at the sheet to wrap around his waist before walking towards the other. "I want to thank you...for everything." He reached out tentatively to cup the other man's stiff shoulder, only to have it shrugged off. "I don't even know your name."

"And I don't know yours. Let's leave it at that. All I was interested in was proving my theory. I don't want to get caught up in some lawsuit for practicing medicine without a license or assault...."

"Stop!" His frustration at the other man's rejection spilled over; the first time he'd had enough energy for anger in months. "I'm grateful! I don't want to sue you!" Stomping back to the bed, he plopped down, frowning. "I'd like my clothes, please, so I can leave."

The other deflated, an air of sadness replacing the strident anger. "You don't have to leave tonight. It's dark out, and you should rest some more." Turning away from the window, he walked toward the bedroom door. "If you want to take a shower, I'll change the sheets so you'll be more comfortable. I'll bring you something to eat, too."

Recognizing the offer as conciliatory, he accepted with a short nod and rose. Crossing the room, he entered the bathroom without a word. When he emerged twenty minutes later, he found clean clothes, hot food, and a freshened bed...and he was alone.

 

. . .

 

Sunrise found him outside, vitality fizzing beneath his skin as he soaked in the early morning light. He hadn't seen his host since their last conversation, although he could see his skeleton moving through the corridors of the partially rebuilt mansion. Shrugging, he decided he would return another day to try to mend the breach, hoping that time and distance would soften the hard edges of anger.

Walking past the garden, he detoured to visit his fellow survivor. The stone bench beckoned and he settled there to study the ancient tree. It was peaceful there, in the sun, and he found himself slipping into a meditative state as he traced the intricate lines of the wood with his eyes. He was so still that the other failed to notice him as he emerged from the mansion carrying canvas and wire.

Dropping his burden on the far side of the tree, the medicine man/gardener/scientist unrolled the canvas and positioned it so it covered over a quarter of the ground, keeping moisture from the roots in that section. Stepping back, he examined his work and rearranged it a few inches to the left before nodding in satisfaction. The wire was next...wrapped around three of the lowest limbs in spirals, and then tightened until their position was altered the tiniest fraction. Task complete, he passed his hand over his head and sighed.

"I read somewhere that a bonsai is the slowest sculpture in the world and that sometimes it's hard to tell whether it's the man or the tree being sculpted." He watched as the other's shoulders stiffened and then relaxed in resignation.

"I thought you left."

"I was going to...and then I stopped to think."

Still facing away, the other's voice was muted. "About what?"

"I was wondering why you were so afraid. I know it's not because you think someone is going to kill you for your ideas."

"You know that much, do you?"

"I guess it's because I've lived in fear myself."

The other must have heard something in his voice because he turned around slowly to look at him sitting there on the bench. "And your fear?"

"Of someone finding out who...what I really am. The only people who knew me are dead, and I've...."

A few steps closer. "Never wanted to take the chance of being hurt...was afraid of being rejected when they saw what you were hiding."

He nodded, but kept the smile from his face, not wanting to break the spell. "When you sculpt a bonsai with water and sun and gentle strength, you know what shape you're searching for, what fits the pattern you see in your mind...and you approach it with patience. A relationship can work the same way."

"I'm frightened of _you_, of the possibilities for failure."

He rose from the bench, moving slowly. "The most beautiful bonsai are often started from the weak, the diseased, the deformed. They're given a chance."

The other held still, allowing him to approach, his blue eyes seeking understanding. "What are you trying to say?"

He reached out and traced the other's upper lip with a finger that could barely detect the scar. "I was wondering if it was possible to join two weak, twisted trees to make one strong bonsai?"

A tentative smile was his answer. "What's your name?"

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by re-reading the classic "Slow Sculpture" by Theodore Sturgeon, winner of the 1971 Hugo and Nebula Awards for Short Story. Reading in the bathtub can be so productive sometimes, especially when it comes to making up extreme quasi-medical mumbo-jumbo.


End file.
